


Flame of the Forest

by AsgardianAngels



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Almaren, Flashback, Flower Crowns, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, mention of Celebrimbor, mention of Irmo, mention of Ossë, yes this is fluff but I'll admit it ends with a twinge of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsgardianAngels/pseuds/AsgardianAngels
Summary: Aule wanted Mairon to get out and make friends, though the maia guessed this wasn't what his lord had in mind. He's going to be picking petals out of his hair for days, he just knows it.Set on Almaren, while Mairon was acting as a spy for Melkor - though, this particular visit perplexed Mairon in that it seemed to have nothing to do with that sketchy side-job of his.





	Flame of the Forest

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I've finally gotten around to moving over here to AO3. This is my first new fic in quite a while, I may or may not fix up some old ones and post them as well. 
> 
> While I think the Seduction of Mairon had nothing much to do with actual seduction, it's just impossible to resist writing these two and their blossoming relationship. Just the faintest inklings that wouldn't take shape or have a name for many centuries to come. If anything though, it was Melkor who got seduced. That poor Vala was smitten, he just didn't know it yet. The early days are so fun to work with.  
> Plus, you know, Melkor's deep-seated self-loathing and abandonment issues are omnipresent. Thanks Eru, Manwe...
> 
> The Flame of the Forest in question is _Spathodea campanulata_ , the African tuliptree. I'm a wildlife biologist. You know I love my scientific names.
> 
> The tengwar used is a tinco, a letter T.
> 
> Look at me, attempting rampant symbolism. Do enjoy!

Mairon hummed a soft, whimsical tune as he tugged the thread through the eye of the needle, weaving another stitch in the cream-colored handkerchief on his knee. It had been millennia but a few of the songs and hymns of his people still clung on in the back of his mind, resurfacing themselves at the most unexpected times. He couldn't recall the words to this one, or even jot down the notes if you asked, but when his mind wandered, often when falling into a pattern of repetition like sewing, the strangest and most distant memories would return to him.

Something told him this was a fëanari jig. It had that sort of lilting way about it, perfect for the lively gatherings they held under the great tuliptree in Irmo's gardens. It spilled its fragrant flowers over them, fiery hues of amber and scarlet, beloved by the hundreds of flickering flames that danced beneath its crown. Manwë would direct the winds for them, filling the air with a humidity thick enough to match the flowers' intoxicating scent. Add to that a couple of tankards of miruvor each, and well...Mairon chuckled, lost in his thoughts. Those parties did get wild.

He’d continuously advised Aulë against bringing so many fire-maiar together at once, but the Vala chortled, that deep bellowing laugh of his, and with a firm slap on the back told Mairon to join them in their frivolity.

“Nay, it is not them I worry about!” he’d exclaim. “I see it in your eyes, you would much rather return to your forge. But Mairon,” he leaned down to place a hand on his shoulder. “We should all allow ourselves a break from our work from time to time, no? You most of all!” He mussed up Mairon’s thick golden hair and gave him a push towards the crowd.

“I don’t want to see smoke billowing from those bellows for the rest of the evening, do you hear me Mairon?” He smiled, a twinkle in his eye.

Mairon reluctantly did as he was told, approaching the outskirts of the grassy knoll while meticulously fixing his hair with a sigh. He hated it when Aulë did that.

Weaving though the undulating sea of maiar, rife with hollering and laughter and more than a few hands trying to pull him in, he reached the tree and took a seat on the silky grass, slumping against its knotted trunk. It seemed every fëanar, not to mention the fëanturi which roamed the gardens, wished to dance with him. It was both endearing and annoying, the latter more so. Removing a notebook from the pocket of his robes, he flipped it open and unwrapped the swatch of cloth he’d been carrying to reveal a stick of charcoal. He was eager to continue his study of this tree, one of the countless kinds that coexisted in the gardens. Mairon intended to catalogue them all. On the page were sketches of its bark and leaves, crude estimates of height and diameter. Scribbled at the top in primitive Valarin (for although most of the Ainur bothered not with writing, Aulë was an ambitious sort) was the name _Flame of the Forest_. He picked up a fallen flower, turning it back and forth with delicate fingers. Contemplating its structure, he set his charcoal to paper and began to draw a rough outline. Thick, leathery petals with edges like ribbons, each larger than his hand, drooped down to tickle his skin. Mairon furrowed his brows as he attempted to capture their life on the page, ever so precise with his strokes, smoothing out the lines –

_**BANG!** _

Mairon’s hand jerked as a fireball exploded in the sky to the delight of all in attendance. A cheer erupted from the crowd, and gritting his teeth Mairon looked down to see an erratic scribble through the main body of his illustrations, smudged from the swiping of his sleeve. He pinched his nose in frustration, leaving charcoal fingerprints behind. This is why he avoided the gardens at this time; nothing of quality could be produced amidst all this chaos. The only reason he was trying now was because he knew he would not have the chance again for many more days. He had four commissions and they were piling up. Despondent, he got up from his sitting place and made a move towards the grove that led to the exit, but a hand grabbed his arm from behind and he turned swiftly to see Curumo, overflowing with mirth, smiling at him in a way Mairon decided he didn’t like.

“And where do you think you’re slipping off to?” he demanded, mischievous glint in his eye.

“Someplace quiet,” Mairon deadpanned. “Now, if you would -”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Mairon,” he retorted with a grin. “Aulë gave me the highly important task of seeing to it that you stay here until the party’s over!”

He looked proud of himself. It was probably the biggest responsibility he’d ever been trusted with (and for good reason; the maia couldn’t strike an anvil without something going flying, usually inches from Mairon’s head).

Mairon sighed. He was trapped. Why did Aulë test his patience so? What did he do that Eru thought this suitable punishment? Begrudgingly, he conceded and let himself be led back towards the center of activity, returning his drawing supplies back into the folds of his robe. He hoped he could salvage the sketch later by lamplight.

Much to his dismay, that never happened. Mairon proceeded to be talked at enthusiastically by Curumo for the remainder of the gathering, unperturbed by Mairon’s obvious lack of interest. Curumo meant well, but… he was a bit rambunctious for Mairon’s tastes. However, Aulë insisted he take him on as apprentice; if anyone could improve Curumo’s skill, it was Mairon, the greatest smith of all Aulë’s folk.

No, Mairon thought to himself, embroidering in calligraphy a letter  in the corner of the handkerchief, he would rather not bore himself with recalling those next few hours.

At last the maiar dispersed, returning to their chambers alone or together, some with flasks of miruvor in hand looking like they’d had too much of the spirit already. A handful were gathered around one of the forsythia bushes, which had caught fire during someone’s antics (no one would admit their guilt), and in attempting to put it out they only managed to fuel the blaze. Watching them squabble and lament (where was one of Ulmo’s when you needed them?) Mairon smiled, bemused, as he strolled by. It had been quite an evening, but finally he could breathe a sigh of relief, for now he had the gardens to himself. His eyes settled on the tree once more, its radiant blossoms inviting him back to his sitting spot beneath its boughs. Mairon was not yet up to the task of repairing the disaster that was his drawing, so he took a seat at the base of the tree and picked up off the ground the flower he’d been examining earlier. Somehow it had avoided getting trampled by hundreds of dancing maiar. He ran his fingers along the ribs of its velutinous petals, teasing them apart gently to peer at the stamens. As he did so, a shadow appeared over him, blocking his view.

Casting an annoyed glance upwards, he saw a pair of black leather boots crushing the grass beneath them. With a gasp he quickly leaned back to take in the rest of the strange visitor, and his gaze met Melkor’s, backlit against the shimmering silvery dew which dripped from fountains and ivy-leaves around the gardens.

“Pontificating, are we?” Melkor asked, making no move to get out of the way.

“What are you doing here?” Mairon spat, eyes narrowed, but there was no real acid behind his words.

“I was in the area,” he said, vaguely as usual, his eyes moving between Mairon and the various entrances to the garden, keeping a close watch for any unsuspecting passersby. After he was confident they were unlikely to be intruded upon, he gave his full focus to the maia. “You think I’ve come to disturb your peace, don’t you?” The smallest of smiles tugged at his lips.

Mairon huffed impatiently, “Yes, well, I’ve only just found it, so –”

“Don’t worry, I’m not,” he assured him in that low voice which was usually reserved for discussing dastardly propositions in hushed tones behind closed doors. This seemed like none of those. Mairon wondered what he was up to.

To Mairon’s surprise, Melkor came and took a seat on the grass beside him.

“What are you…?” He trailed off.

Melkor turned his head towards him, an innocent smile plastered on his face. “Not disturbing your peace.”

Getting straight answers out of this Vala was more difficult than wrangling one of Ossë’s pet sea serpents. To be entirely honest, Mairon was sure he did this just to wear down his adversaries until they gave in. On a good day, this maia could last longer than most, but the last few hours had been trying and so he accepted his fate.

They sat in silence for some time, and Mairon resumed his investigation of flower morphology. Sensing Melkor’s gaze on him, he muttered,

“Anything to add, your highness?”

Melkor leaned forward and peered at the blossom, and then gestured with an outstretched hand. Warily, Mairon passed it to him. He noticed the vast size difference between their hands, and how the bloom fit perfectly in Melkor’s palm. These flowers were made by, and primarily for, Valar, he proposed. All the more eager it made him to uncover the tree’s secrets. Did it have special chemical properties? Could its sap or nectar be used to add flavor to a sweet mead, or perhaps chewing the leaves lent itself to –

Mairon was stopped mid-thought when Melkor reached over and tucked the giant orange blossom into the tresses of his wavy hair. He stared wide-eyed at Melkor, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You were thinking so loud, I had to shut you up somehow,” Melkor jabbed. “Talk about me disturbing the peace.”

Mairon rolled his eyes, and in doing so missed the soft smile that graced Melkor’s lips for only a moment. The humongous flower blocked the entire left side of his field of vision, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“I daresay this would suit you better,” he professed. “At least it’d be proportionate.” He carefully untangled it from his hair, then weaved it into Melkor’s, being watched all the while with a skeptical gaze from the Vala. When it was secure, he sat back to evaluate.

The blazing fiery hues contrasted starkly with Melkor’s jet black hair in a way that actually was quite striking. Something told him though that Melkor may not be much of a flower kind of Ainu.

“Alright, I take it back,” he declared. “You look absolutely preposterous.”

“Well of course I do,” he scoffed, sly grin tugging at his lips. “To be expected when I’m the only one wearing any.”

At that he hoisted himself to his feet and started walking, leaving Mairon eyeing him incredulously as he disappeared into the thicket. He was a strange one, that Melkor. Several minutes passed, in which time Mairon heard the occasional rustle (or sharp hiss, when Melkor presumably stuck himself on a rose thorn or raspberry bramble not once, not twice, but six times) and grew more and more impatient as to what that Vala was getting up to.

Finally he emerged, and Mairon beheld a sight he never would have expected in all his years on Arda. Melkor held within his grasp a vast bouquet of flowers, all dazzling shades of orange or violet. The sheer number of them astounded Mairon, for Melkor could barely close his gargantuan hands around the bunch as he brought them over with haste. Taking up his sitting spot again cross-legged, he spread the blooms out on the grass to assess his options, running a thumb along his lower lip as he thought.

“You are _not_ going to –” Mairon started.

“Shhh,” said Melkor, raising his eyebrows in request. “Just hold on, alright? _Please?_ ”

Mairon glowered at him. No one shushed him if they knew what was good for them. Yet somehow, he found himself conceding with a dramatic sigh and tilt of the head, gaze drifting to some far part of the gardens as Melkor picked up a peony and began weaving it through Mairon’s golden locks. He purposefully avoided making eye contact for some time just to make a point, but eventually he became curious enough about the ridiculous décor Melkor was fashioning for him to look back over at the Vala. Splayed out on the grass were irises and orchids in their full splendor, poppies and marigolds like bright buttons, amaryllises and – _oh_ … Mairon fixed his gaze on a daylily, so dazzlingly rich and vibrant he nearly expected the flames on its petals to burst into life as he watched. It took his breath away.

Melkor’s eyes flickered to Mairon’s face momentarily and he chuckled softly. “I’ll take it you want that one as the crown jewel.”

Mairon smiled sheepishly, caught in a moment of weakness. He said nothing, just watched inquisitively as Melkor, one by one, affixed each blossom. He was ever so careful to not bend the stems or lose even a single petal. Those hands, all joints and sinew, strong enough to effortlessly topple the towering pillars around them. And yet, as Mairon noticed, capable of such incredible dexterity and grace. It made him wonder how many of the stories about Melkor may not be entirely true.

He’d known Melkor for quite a while now – that is, if he wasn’t counting the many weeks he’d initially tried his utmost to keep that very _persistent_ Ainu out of his forge. He would come and go, melting into the shadows, and sometimes Mairon would go a month or more without a glimpse of his mysterious confidant. He realized it was always a risk for Melkor to visit him here, for if the other Powers became aware of his presence there would be hell to pay. Yet he came nonetheless. Mairon was rather troubled by this nagging conundrum from time to time, but eventually was content to think these little affairs arose purely out of necessity, to impart upon Melkor the intelligence he’d been tasked to gather. That is, until now. This broke what formed a comforting pattern in Mairon’s mind; even in the beginning when Melkor would sit with him in his forge and listen for hours upon hours to his stories or complaints, Mairon knew there was motive behind it, that Melkor was making a distinct effort to befriend him and gain his trust. Tonight’s visit had no outward purpose, and the chance of them being caught in the act of this… _fraternizing_ … was great. He exhaled discontentedly, ruffling the petals of a begonia that Melkor held waiting in his hand. Melkor was, with no other way to put it, odd. He was a Vala, a _Vala_ , and instead of doing all those things that Valar do, he was sitting here, braiding flowers into Mairon’s hair. Not even the most liberal of them would stoop so low as to engage in such debauchery. No… Melkor wasn’t like the others. Despite his benevolence and genuine admiration for Mairon, Aulë still spoke down to him, as was to be expected of course, for such is the way of things. But Melkor, the Vala once shunned for his contempt, now sat merely a foot’s length away, at Mairon’s own eye level, on Mairon’s own terms. In the time he’d known him, he had been shown a level of respect he never would have conceived as coming from one of Melkor’s order. No Vala treated their maiar like this, like… _equals_. It subverted what was to all a common truth. Melkor’s gaze held no judgment as to one he deemed lesser than himself, and for all Mairon’s high standing, this was utterly foreign to him. Melkor seemed to defy every expectation, and it both baffled and intrigued him to no end.

“There,” Melkor chimed in, leaving Mairon’s thoughts to trail off like a wisp of the low-hanging mist that shrouded Irmo’s reflecting pools. He hoped he hadn’t been projecting again. The repetitive motions of Melkor’s handiwork had lulled him into a state of tranquility, and coming to his senses he noticed his head was substantially heavier. There must have been dozens, if not tens of dozens, of flowers in his hair, and Melkor had not even used all he had gathered. He surely looked ridiculous.

That, he made sure Melkor heard.

“Oh really,” he retorted, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you go take a look then, confirm your suspicions?” He nodded towards one of the marble fountains.

Mairon got to his feet and strolled over to it, basin larger than one of his forges and filled with silvery dew which seemed to glow from within. He looked down at his reflection, shimmering on the surface, and regarded himself with quiet awe. He had been festooned with so many blooms that he was nearly a garden in himself, a blaze of such resplendent color that it was as if one of Olorin’s fireworks had been frozen in time and manifested itself upon his head. He gingerly lifted a hand to run his fingers along the daylily that had been fitted in the center with careful consideration. In its grandeur it stood out from the rest, made all the more beautiful by how it was complemented, a vision of fiery radiance in a sea of magentas and violets. Mairon was impressed with the complexity of the design; perhaps Melkor knew a thing or two about composition after all. It made him crave even a glimpse of Melkor’s other works, those which he had surely wrought in secret since his arrival in Arda. He bet they would be magnificent.

“I can assure you they are,” Melkor called coyly from across the garden. Mairon smiled at his reflection. He really wasn’t making much of an effort to keep his thoughts to himself. For some reason, his mind just relaxed and opened itself up around Melkor. A part of him wondered if he should be concerned about that, but he was too preoccupied at the moment to let it nag him.

Sensing Mairon perk up, he continued, adding, “Perhaps next time you could accompany me on something of a little…” He chose his words carefully. “…excursion.”

“Oh?” Mairon said, admiring himself in the pool from all angles.

“A jaunt.” Mairon turned to him in curiosity. “To see some things I’ve been working on. If you’re interested, that is…” Melkor left the words hanging as Mairon returned to the grassy knoll, looking deep in thought. A soft smile from the maia let him know that the flowers had won his approval.

“Perhaps,” he murmured lazily, taking a seat. “If I can find a time to slip away unnoticed.”

With that they fell into a pensive sort of silence, searching for further words but finding none that could express quite what it was they were feeling. Likely it was because they did not understand it themselves. So they sat for a while, listening to the intricate patterns of burbles and clicks from a nightingale somewhere out of sight. Mairon absentmindedly fiddled with the flowers weighing down his hair. He had never, well… just spent time with Melkor. Coexisted in time and space without reason or urgent need. Felt his essence, deep and powerful and yet not at all threatening, ebb and flow like the tides around him. It was nice.

Mairon broke the silence.

“Alright,” he said, adjusting a crocus that was slipping down. “What’s all this about?”

“Hmm?” Melkor was half-asleep, propped up against the trunk of the tuliptree.

“You’ve been as close to a polite houseguest as I’ve ever seen you, and engaged in all manner of outrageous flattery. Obviously you want something from me, so what is it?”

Melkor glanced at him with what seemed like genuine confusion. “I don’t follow.”

Mairon sighed, getting to his feet. “Look, no use trying to sugarcoat it, I’ll either say yes or no, so you might as well spit it out.”

Melkor’s brow was furrowed now, standing up to face him. “You think I’m doing this because I want something? I… thought you would enjoy this. Why would you assume there must be some ulterior motive?”

“Because I know you,” he retorted.

Melkor’s expression turned to one which, curiously, could only be described as disappointment.

“Do you want me to leave?” he said quietly.

“I – ” Mairon blinked. “No… I just…” he pursed his lips. “I get confused by the contrast between your words and actions, Melkor.”

The Vala looked down at the ground sullenly. If he was contemplating something, Mairon knew not what. He did not have the chance to press the issue however, for just then the sounds of conversation and Aulë’s deep jolly voice came into earshot, echoing through the vast garden galleries from the square nearby. Mairon’s heart began to race, momentarily rooted in place from the shock. Melkor raised his head and listened intently for a few seconds, then looked back at Mairon.

“Apologies,” Mairon stuttered. He hadn’t wanted to end things on such a note, but they both knew it would be far worse to linger and be caught.

Melkor stepped forward noiselessly and, with all the regal formality of a Vala, bowed low to Mairon in respect.

“I hope to see you again,” he said, his tone considerate yet maintaining a cautious distance.

Mairon gave a small smile. “We both know you will.”

“Only if you want,” he murmured.

Mairon shrank in guilt. Driving Melkor away was, despite how much that Ainu heckled him and cajoled him and generally pushed all his buttons, the last thing he wanted to do. Ever since he came, Mairon found himself having something to look forward to. The only thing these days, to be honest. He wouldn’t give it up for the world.

“I do,” he replied. “In fact, I’d like to take you up on that offer. To see what you’ve been working on. If it still stands.”

That brought a smile to Melkor’s face at last, if only a meager one.

“For you, of course,” he professed.

With Aulë approaching, they forewent any further niceties, Mairon scrambling back under the tree and Melkor gliding briskly towards the exit. Turning back briefly, perhaps to say a parting word but deciding against it, Mairon saw melancholy etched deep into the lines of his face. He had hit a nerve, somehow, and he wasn’t sure what it was. For reasons he did not fully understand, he hoped Melkor would someday confide in him. A strange Vala indeed, but perhaps Mairon was stranger for wanting to know him when no one else did.

“Mairon!” Aulë boomed, stepping into the gardens with Curumo and a couple lower maiar in tow. Mairon had already resumed his air of cool-tempered skepticism.

“Must you continue to disrupt the few moments of long sought-after peace and quiet I manage to find, my lord?” he chided.

Beaming, Aulë reached down and pulled Mairon to his feet, then looked him over surprised.

“The party was lively I see!” he chortled. “I should have Curumo drag you out more often!”

Mairon was confused as to what he meant, until a firm clap on the back sent a cloud of petals tumbling down in front of his eyes. Curumo caught the hint of a blush that crept into Mairon’s cheeks and grinned.

“Oh, that couldn’t have been from the party,” he piped in. “Mairon was most definitely flower-free when I left him here not two hours ago!”

“Is that so, Mairon!” Aulë lowered his head to meet Mairon’s gaze, a knowing twinkle in his eye. He didn’t appreciate the insinuation.

“I won’t press you for details,” Aulë conceded, seeing Mairon’s deadpan expression. “But I think the lesson to be learned here is that a break from your duties can be productive in other ways! Don’t you agree Curumo?”

“Oh yes, wholeheartedly, my lord,” Curumo snickered. He wouldn’t be laughing the next day when he had to face Mairon for this.

“Knowing you Mairon, I am sure you’ll be back at your workstation hammering away before I manage to round up the rest of my smiths,” Aulë said. “But I’ll say it again; do not forget to take some time for yourself. Who knows what you may find?” With that reassuring smile of his, he turned and departed with his maiar, leaving Mairon alone under the warm glow of the tuliptree.

“I was hoping eventually he’d find someone,” Aulë admitted, once out of earshot.

Curumo scoffed. “I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t just see _that_ with my own two eyes.”

“Ah well, leave him be. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.” They turned down the hall towards the smiths’ quarters. “Whoever the lucky maia is, they could ask for no better partner.”

“You’ve got that right,” Curumo said, waving to the other fëanari as they left, one stumbling drunkenly as the other propped him up. “He’d be quite the catch, that is, if he’d let himself be caught.”

Aulë gave that booming laugh of his again, the sound echoing through the cavernous halls. “Curumo, you have much to learn about the ways of love! If there is someone out there for our Mairon, then he will be, as you say, caught. Love will find him, if he is meant to have it. Fate decides that for us all! When I first met Yavanna…”

Curumo rolled his eyes. He was trapped again while Aulë told another one of his riveting accounts of his forays into Vala romance. He hoped whatever Mairon was getting up to behind their backs was worth this sacrifice. The things he did for that maia… and without any appreciation. Tsk tsk.

Mairon listened intently to their footsteps growing distant. When there was silence, he finally let go of a sigh that felt like he’d been holding in, well, practically all night. It astounded him how much time passed in his life where nothing of import seemed to happen, and then it came in great bursts without warning, like the interruption of a calm sea by one of Ossë’s tempests. He had much to think about, and he wished to do so by the firelight of his forge, where he could stoke the embers of his mind into life and hopefully, understanding.

He tugged a hand through his hair, unraveling the carpet of flowers that draped his head. They fell like snowflakes to the ground. Snow… what a unique thing. One of Melkor’s. Being a fire spirit he was not overfond of the cold, but somehow this curious thing held his attention. There was no snow here on Almaren, but he recalled seeing it once, just once, when he had first arrived to this world. Aulë had promptly melted it, cursing all the while. Melkor often spoke of his halls in the north, blanketed in snow, and Mairon realized he wanted to go there, badly. To see the snow, but more importantly, to see it someplace no one would try to melt it.

To see a novel idea thrive where it was wanted.

His fingers collided with the daylily and he carefully unhooked its stem from its secure resting place. Looking it over, he smiled softly and decided he would keep it. Head no longer laden with blossoms, he made for the grove that led back towards his home, twirling the daylily between thumb and forefinger.

Approaching his forge, he felt its familiar aura wash over him. Irmo’s gardens were tranquil but nothing soothed a fire maia like the waves of heat pouring off a furnace, the clink of metal on metal, and the gleam of polished ore in the flickering amber light. Shrugging off the outer layer of his robes, he felt a weight in one of the pockets, and remembered his notebook and charcoal. With a disgruntled expression he leafed through the pages and came upon his ruined sketch. He didn’t know when he’d find the time or motivation to attempt it again, plus, he no longer even had the flower. It was all very discouraging. Entering the vast chamber, he folded the robe and set it on a stool along with his drawing tools. If he was going to keep this flower, he would need something to put it in. His eyes scanned the room for anything vaguely vase-shaped, and stopped when he noticed something on his desk in the corner. Intrigued, but with a healthy dose of suspicion, he advanced towards it, and what he saw caught him utterly by surprise.

On the desk lay the tuliptree blossom, right in the center, its petals casting long shadows across the polished wood. As if skeptical that it was real, Mairon picked it up and held it out in front of him. He knew who had to have left it there, but he kept it to himself. Sound traveled in this place. Still, the unexpected gesture brought a smile to his face. With a bit of searching he found a small copper pouring vessel, and scooping some water from the slack tub, placed the two flowers in it together and set it down on his desk. Maybe he could find a _little_ time to fix his drawing. It seems someone was looking forward to the finished product, after all. He’d hate to disappoint.

Mairon laid the last golden stitch and admired the finished handkerchief. Time really flies when one gets lost in daydreams. Gazing out the window, he could just see the first hints of the predawn light filtering through the gaps of the Hithlaegir to the east. With the gift done for Telperinquar’s begetting celebration, he reckoned he still had time to tinker with some of the leftover gold scraps from yesterday’s training exercise. He stashed the handkerchief in his desk drawer and, grabbing his apron, descended the spiral staircase down to the forge. He had been struck with inspiration, and he had to see it done.

At the first robin-song, as if on cue, Mairon heard the latch on the door click and the thudding footfalls of boots coming down the hall. He pulled his hair back and set it in place with the golden daylily clip that he’d finished welding not minutes earlier. Today was the day, he thought to himself, holding back a grin. Today was the day they would make the first ring of power. This is something he had long looked forward to.

The only thing these days to be honest.


End file.
